


Pillow Fight

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, M/M, Union Jack Pillow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-06 00:52:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Union Jack pillow has greater significance than the average decorative item.</p><p>Love Bingo prompt fill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pillow Fight

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own the characters. No disrespect is intended by and no money is made from this writing.

Of course it was Mycroft who noticed it first. He received occasional status updates about 221 Baker Street, accompanied by still images of the flat and its contents. This wasn’t about controlling his brother’s life. Say what he would about Mycroft starting wars, Sherlock clearly had no idea about the traffic snarl that would have ensued if he’d actually succeeded in making a bathtub full of chloroform. That disaster had been averted only because Mycroft had noticed the extraordinary amount of chemicals in the kitchen and sent in a removal team.  As he examined this week’s crop of photographs, he noticed that the Union Jack cushion seemed to move about a great deal for such a seemingly useless object. It drifted from one armchair to the other with bewildering regularity. When he came across a picture of Sherlock, fending off his laughing lover with one hand and holding the pillow high over his head with the other, he sighed. “Really, brother? Will you ever learn to share?” It was, however, the only picture not returned to the file, instead finding its way into Mycroft’s desk drawer.

~*~*~*~

Not surprisingly, given that he was in fact a fairly successful officer of the law, Lestrade was the next to notice. He’d stopped by to consult with Sherlock about a case and absently noticed the cushion; he was looking to add some colorful touches to his new bachelor flat. It had been on Sherlock’s chair when they spread the files over the coffee table and turned down John’s offer of tea. The blogger settled down with his cup, snagging the cushion and tucking it beside him to support his e-reader.  Soon enough Sherlock was flinging questions, discarding theories, and flitting around the room like a hummingbird on speed. “John! Fetch your laptop; I need background on the maitre’d.” When the John left the room with a put-upon sigh, those lightning fingers snatched up and aggressively plumped the pillow, then chucked it onto the seat of the Eames chair. Lestrade missed the next maneuver while taking a call from the yard but when he came back from the hallway, the cushion was back on the faded red armchair. John was seated at the desk, absorbed in his research, but a faint smirk lingered around his lips. Over the next 35 minutes Sherlock solved the case, Mrs. Hudson made sandwiches, John proclaimed Sherlock and annoying berk of a genius, and the pillow switched chairs 3 more times. Lestrade rolled his eyes as he walked down the stairs, and decided that he’d really rather not know.

~*~*~*~

When the cushion vanished from the sitting room following Sherlock’s death neither Mycroft nor Lestrade noticed. They were far too busy picking up the pieces and rebuilding their lives in the absence of the man who had drawn them together. Lestrade finally cried for his friend when he happened upon the picture in Mycroft’s drawer. Mycroft said nothing, just leaned against his desk, pulled Greg into an embrace and silently cursed his brother for doing this to all of them. Some weeks later, after another call to come fetch a drunk and maudlin John Watson, the item in question turned up. Greg was grateful that John stuck to their regular haunt, even as Mycroft wondered how soon they would have to confront him about self-destructive coping strategies. At least he had finally moved into the more convenient bedroom; just getting him up to the flat was challenge enough. The bed had been slept in but not made, so Greg sorted that while Mycroft dealt with pyjamas and paracetamol.  A vigorous shaking of the blankets sent the Union Jack tumbling across the mattress. Upon seeing it John gave a moan, fell onto the bed, and promptly passed out with his face mashed against the rough fibers. Mycroft rolled him onto his side with the ease of practice, and Greg matter-of-factly positioned the bin. When he reached to pull the pillow away, Mycroft shook his head. “Let him keep it. ’Whatever gets you through the night’; isn’t that how it goes?” They sat vigil together through that long night, and several more besides, before John rounded some uncharted corner and the cushion was enshrined reverently on the chrome chair. There it stayed, unmoved except for weekly dusting, until a miracle happened.

~*~*~*~

This time Mycroft wasn’t the first to observe it. He’d continued his surveillance of Baker Street out of concern that some remnant of the syndicate would show up seeking vengeance. Or so he told himself; the tightening in his chest every time his resurrected brother appeared in the shots suggested a less pragmatic motivation. He looked over the latest batch of images while Greg tossed the salad. It appeared that the broken pieces were finally, _finally_ , coming back together. The sofa no longer bore signs of being slept upon, and there was the rather telling appearance of a pair of shockingly red briefs draped over the skull. Greg brought the bowl to the table, glanced over Mycroft’s shoulder. “Looks like they’ve finally sorted things out.”

Mycroft relaxed slightly. “I’d say they’re moving forward, yes. But you sound more certain than misplaced underwear might warrant. Explain, please?”

Greg chuckled. “The pants are a pretty big clue. But look, see here?” He pointed to the timestamps in two of the pictures. “These were taken a couple days later, five minutes apart. Look at the chairs.”

Mycroft looked. “My lord, I can’t believe I missed it. You’re a marvel.” He stroked a fingertip over the Union Jack that appeared in both shots, resting on each of the chairs in turn. A surprisingly boyish laugh bubbled out of Mycroft’s chest. “They really are back to their version of normal. They’re fighting over that blasted cushion again.”

~*~*~*~

**Author's Note:**

> For my 'custody dispute' square on Love Bingo. Hubs and I occasionally speak about our children having 'custody disputes' over favorite playthings that they were sharing quite happily just moments before. 
> 
> No beta, no brit-picker.


End file.
